


don't give a good goddamn (about redemption)

by meritmut



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Play, Bondage and Discipline, Coitus Interruptus, Dominant Rey, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Humor, Praise Kink, Sex Toys, Submissive Kylo Ren, ben solo is a bratty sub thanks for coming to my ted talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 08:17:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16036541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meritmut/pseuds/meritmut
Summary: Ben's tracker cuff causes some unforeseen problems in the bedroom.





	don't give a good goddamn (about redemption)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bittersnake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittersnake/gifts).



> inspired by [this unreal story](https://www.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/9duls5/tifu_by_not_taking_off_my_apple_watch_or/?utm_source=reddit-android) on the TIFU reddit (nsfw, obv) and following conversations on the rffa discord

If he thinks back far enough, he can probably remember them reading him the terms of his sentence.

Probably.

Truth is, he wasn’t paying attention. He wasn’t listening when the glowering parole officer explained the nature of the cuff she was clapping around his right ankle; wasn’t listening when she—with palpable relish—reminded him of precisely how many years stood between him and its removal _(or your death, whichever comes last,_ she’d actually said, but again: he wasn’t listening). He'd glazed over completely by the time she got to listing off the circumstances under which the cuff’s alarm would trigger, including—but not limited to—cardiac or respiratory irregularities, sounds the auditory sensors registered as _pain_ or _extreme distress,_ or straying too far outside the designated geographic zone. The latter of which, she assured him, would trigger an immobilising shock that would make Force-lightning feel like a tickle.

Ben hadn’t been paying attention, but then he’d also been under a mild sedative, so really—it’s hardly _his_ fault that the cuff wasn’t on his mind when he asked Rey to put him ass up, tie his wrists to the bedframe and fuck him half out of his body.

No. Rey had been at that briefing too, and _she_ hadn’t been drugged. This one’s all on her.

Not that he’s going to tell her that. Not until he’s got his pants back on.

“Oh,” she gasps, when the holo on the desk flares into life to project a full-sized Lieutenant Paget into the middle of the bedroom, cast in a sapphire-blue haze that can’t hide the look on her face—the look that says whatever _this_ is, she doesn’t get paid enough to deal with it.

“Lieutenant,” Rey sounds strained. “I can explain...”

Ben almost wants to watch her try.

 

* * *

 

“It’s alright, baby,” she murmurs, her hand smoothing over his flank. Like he’s a spooked animal, Ben muses. Does that make her his keeper? Her palm is blazing hot against his skin: Rey’s always hot, even when she’s shivering and pressing herself into him like some heat-sucking vampire.

 _You can take the girl out of the desert,_ he thinks dazedly.

“You’re doing so well...”

Her touch is achingly gentle. Where did she learn that, he wonders? Who taught her to be soft? No one on that sandblasted hellhole, for sure.

Ben—well, Ben is putty when Rey calls him _baby_ and she knows it, so he doesn’t hold back a pleased little noise as her hand curves back around to rest on his hip. Holding him to her, though there’s nothing connecting their bodies yet.

Her thigh nudges at the rounded hilt of the plug pressed into him and that’s almost as good.

“You ready?” she asks, like she can’t hear how ragged his breathing’s gotten.

“Mmhm.”

“Didn’t quite catch that.” Her fingers dig into the meat of his thigh, the one place on him there’s any give. He had hated it, that _give,_ when he was younger and trying to excise all his softnesses on the edge of a knife, but Rey seems to like it and that’s reason enough to tolerate it at the least.

_“Rey…”_

“I’m here,” she says, and her leg makes contact with the plug again. Ben keens at the knee-weakening spasm that ripples through him. “Right here.”

He’s still trembling from the jolt of pleasure when she lifts her hand away and brings it sharply down on his ass with a _crack_ he feels in his teeth. She rubs her palm over the area, caresses the sting away before it has the chance to melt into his muscles. Ben whines—he _likes_ the sting. He likes the way her touch lingers, makes the pain burn in new ways. It reminds him of the fire she set under his skin when she tore his face in two.

Not that he’d ever tell her that either.

She strikes the other cheek with the same force and Ben cries out, bucking up into her hand—chasing the pain, the lightning thrill of it, the way it makes his synapses _sing_. Rey rubs the site of impact again and drops a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“More?” she murmurs into his skin, and when Ben grunts his assent she wastes no time in giving him what he wants. Once—twice—thrice—the sting sharpens his senses, sharpens everything; even as the world goes fuzzy around the edges he’s so painfully _aware_ of her nearness and her attention and her touch, and he wants _more_.

Rey hums in amusement when he tries to muffle a sound, digs her thumb into the place she’d just struck until Ben grinds out her name again and she leans in to kiss his hips, one after the other, her fingers massaging him until he purrs like a happy loth-cat. She knows all the parts of him that elicit the sweetest responses; she knows how to make him _sob_.

She knows how to make him scream, too, and he wants that more tonight.

 _More,_ he presses through the bond.

“Someone’s needy,” she walks her fingers down his spine until she reaches the plug. It’s a modest, slender thing, meant to hold him open in readiness more than anything, but the stimulation against his prostate when she presses just _so_ is enough to have him gasping curses under his breath.

The next strike takes him by surprise and is all the sweeter for it. The two after follow so quickly on its heels that he can’t even ride them—can’t rock his hips fast enough to meet her, can only press his face into the pillow and _take it_ like he’s meant to.

Rey takes pity on him after that. She waits a little between each blow so by the time she’s done three more, making him ask for each one, his ass is burning and he’s slack-jawed and _drooling_ into the pillow.

“Was that enough for you?”

They’re on her side of the bed, he realises abruptly. It’s _her_ pillow he’s drooling into.

Ben moves his head to the side, hoping she’ll see it and maybe chastise him for it, but this time she tugs on the pear-shaped bulb sticking out of his ass. “Or are you still hungry, baby?”

She wants to hear him beg for it. She wants to hear _please_. He’s not going to make it that easy for her.

Ben arches his back, giving her a good view of—well, everything. He feels Rey shift her weight behind him and then her palms are gripping him, spreading him, and—oh, _oh—_ her tongue teases the plug, the wet heat turning him to jelly as quickly as if she’d pushed inside him herself, and Ben surrenders whatever control he had over his vocal chords as a moan drags out of him that sounds like it’s coming from a different person. He’s never heard himself sound so _wrecked_.

Maybe she’ll take the plug out of him and put her tongue there instead. He wouldn’t care if she didn’t punish him again if she did that. Maybe—

She bites down hard on his tender right cheek and Ben loses track of that thought fairly sharpish.

“You still feel tense,” she muses, thumbs working at his glutes again. “But you’re being so good, I’m not sure you deserve more.”

He pushes back into her, a clear enough rebuttal that Rey laughs softly. “You do?”

 _I’ve gotten your pillow pretty soaked,_ he wants to say, only his jaw muscles still aren’t working properly so all he can manage is a groan and another pointed shove backward.

Rey clicks her tongue. “Brat.”

Being a brat is enough misbehaviour for her, apparently, because she resettles her weight again and this time the strike covers both of his cheeks, driving the toy against his prostate so hard his knees buckle.

“I could make you count,” she says, as her palm meets the top of his left thigh.

 _Twelve,_ he thinks. She hasn't figured out yet that she doesn't need to _make_ him do anything.

The next one reddens the right thigh and _gods,_ the weight of his cock between his legs is growing hotter and heavier all the time; he wishes she would just reach down and _touch_ him, maybe put her mouth on him again, he’s so close it wouldn’t take him long—

“So good,” she croons. He hadn’t known she could _croon_ until he got her into bed (or was it the other way around?). He’d learned a whole host of new things about her then.

“More,” he whispers.

The final two are hard enough to leave him whimpering into the bed, and then she’s pressing rhythmically against the plug while her other hand reaches over his hip to wrap around his cock, and suddenly there’s stars dancing behind his eyes and that coiled heat in his groin is ready to _break_ —

And then—

“Ben?”

She’s not touching him anymore.

“What?” he manages, strangled. Rey’s hands are on his ass again, propping herself up, and he hears it: the faint, insistent beeping.

“Your ankle’s going off.”

He’s trussed too well to turn and look at it.

He’s too fuck-drunk to realise _why_.

They’re both too stunned to do more than flinch when the desktop holo crackles into life. Ben turns his head toward the blue glow emanating from the centre of the room and promptly chokes on his own spit.

There’s an Iridonian woman staring at him.

He knows when Rey notices because she _shrieks_  and throws herself back off the bed. “Oh—” she splutters, moving hastily around the bed to put herself in front of Ben’s naked, splayed body and hide him from view, for which he is unutterably grateful. “Lieutenant. Um. I can explain?”

Ben shoves aside the overwhelming urge to burrow bodily into the sheets and tilts his head so he can glare at Paget properly, wondering idly if it’s possible to Force-choke a holo.

For her part, the holographic zabrak looks profoundly unimpressed.

“Ben Solo,” she says flatly. “Auditory sensors on your person triggered an alarm at our facility. A team has been dispatched to your location.”

 _“What?”_ Rey yelps. “I—Lieutenant, that’s not necessary.”

“Madam Jedi,” Paget says, and Ben watches Rey go ramrod-stiff like she always does whenever anyone calls her that. Discomfort pangs in the bond; he curls his hands into fists and counts to ten. “This is out of my hands. It’s procedure to follow up on distress signals from prisoners under house arrest.” Her tone indicates she wishes very much that it wasn’t.

“But—Ben, tell her—”

“This is _absolutely not necessary,”_ Ben grits out, already working on loosening the bonds around his wrists. It takes more concentration than it should, with his head so scattered by the ruined orgasm and pervasive thoughts of _murder_.

He’d been so close. So kriffing _close_.

“I understand,” Paget replies, again clearly wishing wholeheartedly that she didn’t. "But I can’t assume you aren’t speaking under duress. You can clear it all up with the officers when they arrive. Good night, Ma’am. Solo.”

For a few seconds after she disconnects the two of them sit in stunned silence, Rey perched on the edge of the bed while Ben works steadily at his ties. She seems to be in shock, but after a while a little tremor runs through her and she comes back to herself.

“Oh—shit, Ben, I’m sorry.” Rey jumps to her feet and starts untying the wrist he hadn't freed. The cuff has gone silent again; the damage is done, he supposes.

When he’s free and she’s tossed the soft ropes aside Ben pulls himself up to rest his tender behind on the pillows, mindful of the plug. Rey seats herself at the opposite end and they stare at each other, lost for words.

“What just happened?” Her eyes are wide.

Ben swallows. His throat is hoarse. He feels—wrung out, somehow, pleasantly used and raw but still uncomfortably tense. Like he’d been on the verge of a truly _earth-shattering_ climax, and instead gotten a truly horrible shock.

His only consolation is that Paget probably had a worse one.

“I think,” he says slowly, chewing over the realisation as it comes to him, “the lieutenant now believes you’ve taken on a far more active role in my rehabilitation.”

She has no business blushing after what she’d just been doing to him, but Ben watches the pink spread from her forehead down to her chest as Rey brings a hand slowly up to cover her mouth.

Then she’s _laughing._

“Oh my _gods.”_

There are tears streaming down her flushed cheeks now, and she’s only wearing one of her wrap tunics (left artfully undone so he can get a good eyeful when she leans over) and her underwear; she shouldn’t be the most devastatingly _gorgeous_ thing Ben’s ever seen—but then, she was that when she stood before him in the snow, covered in sweat and blood and lit by fire and sapphire plasma, so tousle-haired, half-naked and giggling in his bed maybe shouldn’t surprise him that much.

 _“Ben,”_ his name comes out like a wheeze and it’s enough to break through his mortification. He grins back at her, reaching out so he can pull her into his lap where she belongs. She goes willingly, as pliant in his arms as he was under her discipline, and she’s still laughing when he kisses her.

Her hands fall to wrap around his aching wrists and rub at the reddened skin there, soothing away the ache as she presses kisses everywhere she can, paying special attention to the lovebites she'd left earlier and reaffirming with soft praise just how very _good_ he’d been for her. Ben preens under her care, reminding himself every so often why he can’t just tumble her over now and show her how good he still can be.

They’re still kissing when the security team arrives and Rey has to rush off to find trousers so she can let them in, while Ben, deciding he has nothing to hide or to be embarrassed about, takes a more sedate approach to getting into his own clothes. He considers a shirt—still unaccustomed to showing flesh around anyone but Rey—but then he spots the rose-pink hickey blossoming proudly under his collarbone.

Let them see what their  _Jedi_ is capable of, he decides smugly, tossing the shirt into the hamper.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to maintain an erection again when Rey shoos the officers out fifteen minutes later, having assured them that no, Ben wasn’t being held and hurt against his will, and yes, Rey is every inch (and then some) the handler she had agreed to be when she secured his release, but then the apartment door is locked once more and it’s just the two of them and she’s got that look in her eyes that she gets when someone dares get between her and a hot meal.

Ben leans against the wall and folds his arms across his chest, smirking as she makes her way back to him.

“Can’t wait for that story to get around,” she sighs. She doesn’t look remotely troubled by the idea—she never did learn shame the way he did, or much in the way of modesty. So what if her friends find out she’s ravishing the Jedi Killer on a nightly basis?

Ben finds he doesn’t care either, so long as she doesn’t stop.

**Author's Note:**

> the actual inspiration, verbatim:
> 
> _long-suffering security detail: i don't actually want to know why your tracker set off an alarm but i have to ask_  
>  _ben, smugly and definitely covered in lovebites: ask your jedi_


End file.
